


Wrought In Marble

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Control Issues, Dave pretending to be a puppet, Incest, M/M, Puppet Fetish, Sexual Content, agalmatophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:02:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro’s got 23 minutes to get his ass through the door or he misses his chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrought In Marble

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It’s Thursday.

11:36 so it’ll keep being Thursday for another 24 minutes.

Dave sits with his feet propped on some weird trunk full of who knows what, playing his Bro’s Xbox, getting kind of tired. He’s halfway to convincing himself he doesn’t need to sleep.

He checks the time, 11:37, so 23 minutes.

Bro’s got 23 minutes to get his ass through the door or he misses his chance.

Dave stifles a yawn, pulls off a sick heel flip/snack grab combo, promptly smashes his avatar’s face into the pavement.

The game glitches.

He sighs and drops the controller beside him, stretches out so the arch of his back straddles the top of the futon, settles, upside-down and precarious.

From here he can see the fridge. He can’t quite make out the thin scrapes crosshatched over the surface from wayward knives, the unlit tail of a firecracker he knows is shoved up the broken ice maker, but if he squints and really stares he can almost read the messy schedule outlined on a sheet of recycled printer paper and taped to the freezer door.

Monday through Thursday carry scrawled reminders to take the fucking garbage out dave, to pay the rent if it happens to be the first, to order pizza since there’s a deal at the place up the street, to play some obnoxious music to piss off the lady downstairs while she’s having her weekly game of bridge.

It’s basically a giant joke and they don’t take it too seriously.

Friday through Sunday is one long block of in jokes and memes, some strife penciled in.

Tuesday is labeled as Dave’s night, Thursday is Bro’s.

Dave is vigilant with this shit, so he cashed in his Tuesday like a coupon crazed soccer mom on ten-for- a-dollar boxes of mac and cheese at the local Walmart.

Bro is usually pretty on top of things too, almost always drags Dave into some kind of Thursday bullshit shenanigans, but as a busy guy he can’t always be trusted to get in on time.

But whatever, that just means he doesn’t get his choice.

See, days that start with T are weird sex days in the Strider household (being that there are two T days, one for each of them, and Wednesday falls conveniently in between to be used for any necessary recuperation.)

And while Dave was more than happy to use his day for some not very weird at all but hard to procure morning sex, he fully expects Bro to be armed with some seriously weird demands.

Still upside-down, he checks the microwave clock, always two minutes fast. 11:41.

So actually 11:39, so actually 21 minutes left for Bro to claim his Thursday.

Dave slinks back down into a proper sitting position on the futon, stares blankly ahead at his eternally face-planting avatar. He can’t decide if he wants Bro to make it home on time or not.

Because once they hit Friday there’s still the possibility of sex, just not the iron clad promise that Dave will comply with whatever weird shit Bro wants to indulge in.

Not that he refuses much of anything, but still. Knowing he has the option to tell Bro to fuck off without breaching their unwritten contract is a comfort.

When the sound of the door opening reaches his ears Dave is mentally cursing, swallowing hard as his heart rate picks up.

He drops his feet to the floor, turns to look and of course it’s Bro, slipping in and toeing his shoes off beside the door, closing and locking it and clearly, he means business.

What kind of business is the question.

Dave waits on edge, watches as his brother turns and looks back at him, raises his eyebrows. He says nothing as he makes his way around the room, largely ignoring Dave in favor of rummaging through the things on his desk. Wires and magazines get pushed out of the way and when he turns to look at Dave again, he’s got something in hand. Two somethings.

Two leather bands are looped around his index finger, held in mid-air so the string attached to each one hang down, small rings at the opposite ends catching the light. Modified marionette strings.

“So,” He says lightly, “It’s Thursday.”

They share a glance, smug on Bro’s end, while Dave just looks tense, cornered.

He curses mentally again, doesn’t voice any of what’s racing through his mind because he can’t.

Or at least, he’s not supposed to, because Bro is using his day for puppet fetish fulfillment sex and Dave is expected to play the role of puppet.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

He goes limp on the futon.

His head falls back and he stares blankly at the ceiling, a portion of the wall, can just barely see Bro in his peripheral. He hears him though, the pleased tone of his voice when he comes close and gazes down at him, murmuring that he’s getting good at this.

He doesn’t move, barely breathes as he steels himself against complete vulnerability. His very insides itch with a need to be moving, speaking, already. His arms rest uneasy on either side of him, flung just slightly haphazard in an impersonation of a carelessly dropped marionette.

He holds that pose while Bro walks off, out of his view, moving around the apartment and rearranging things Dave can’t guess at, probably just wasting time to piss him off. He hears him walk down the hall, enter the bathroom, come back a minute later without ever touching the sink, the toilet, the shower.

He listens as he reenters the living room, sees him move past at an awkwardly angled blur, and fights off warm feelings when Bro tells him he’s doing great, perfect.

It’s strange and disconcerting to be playing any part in this, to sit statue still and wait for his brother to decide how he wants to play with him, but in spite of it all, Dave can’t help but feel at least a little good.

Perfect is perfect, even if it is freaky fucking puppet perfect.

He keeps up the act as Bro drops a hand down and strokes his cheek experimentally, doesn’t flinch at the touch.

Bro goes for the shades next, a low blow, but Dave can handle it. He’s done this before, knows how it goes. They’re carefully slid out of place, taken off and set aside.

Dave’s stare is unwavering. He tries to clear his mind (that makes it easier to pull this off,) but as per usual his brain is a constant stream of sick beats and stupidity and held in stutter.

He listens, doesn’t look, as Bro backs away for a moment, turns off the television, casts them into harsh silence.

A moment later he’s right back at Dave’s side, smoothing out the fabric of his shirt and the sudden touch is almost enough to startle Dave into movement. He suppresses the urge, imagines his arms are going pins and needles numb even though it’s only been a minute or so since he last moved them. This shit drives him crazy.

Just as soon as he’s finished brushing the creases out of the clothing, Bro ruins his own work taking it off. He edges his hands under Dave’s shirt, begins pushing it up, tugging gently in places where it’s trapped between body and futon.

Dave stays still, doll still, feels his heart in his throat.

He doesn’t know where those strings went to but he’s pretty damn sure they’re going to end up on him at some point. He won’t let himself think too much on it, keeps staring upward and tries to blink as seldom as possible, keeps his expression schooled into blankness as Bro takes one of his arms in hand, maneuvers it this way and that so he can wrangle his sleeves off.

It’s a good thing he’s trained in the art of wearing a poker face, or else this wouldn’t work.

He half-wonders, not for the first time, if that training was meant to lead up to something like this.

It’s probably stupid to think that, so he stops. He stops wondering entirely and just lets everything happen, tips and bends like a ragdoll as Bro works his shirt off.

The pants follow, easier on Dave’s part. He just has to hold still while Bro lifts his hips, shimmies the jeans off of him, tugs them down his legs.

Really he prefers getting his clothes damn near ripped off, but this works too.

With a light touch, Bro reaches up and nudges Dave’s head where he wants it, tipping his chin down so his vacant stare settles on him. He leans forward to brush their lips together in a kiss and it makes Dave’s chest ache to not respond. The smile he receives is worth it though, the slight lift of Bro’s lips against his own that tells him he’s doing well.

Bro pulls out a slim something, not a marker, maybe a crayon? Whatever it is, it’s black, and when he pops the cap off the small tube and leans forward to draw a thin line on Dave’s skin, from the very corner of his mouth and down, it feels cool and slightly waxy.

He draws an identical line on the other side and Dave thinks it’s a good thing there’s no mirrors around or he might have a panic attack at his own fucked up puppety appearance.

Bro runs his thumb over Dave’s lower lip, nudges his chin so his mouth falls slightly open, stares at him for a moment and it’s almost too creepy for Dave’s liking, then taps his jaw up again to close his mouth.

When Tuesday rolls around again he is so going to make it worth his while. He’s going to have Bro take him to a sex shop, browse vibrators with him, stand by while he has long, awkward conversations with the guy behind the counter with intentions of making absolutely everyone as uncomfortable as possible. He’s going to make so many people squirm.

He’s plotting out the most roundabout ways to suggest to complete strangers that he’s having really kinky sex with his own brother on a regular basis when those strings come back into play.

Bro takes hold of one of his arms and Dave leaves his muscles slack, lets him twist and turn the limb till he can fasten the soft leather band around one wrist. The second one follows and after a moment of rearranging, Bro slips his fingers through the rings at the end of each string and lifts them up in one smooth pull.

Dave’s arms bend to his will, rise and move as he directs them, and even though he’s pretty sure he’s flushed with embarrassment now, Bro doesn’t seem to mind.

Apparently satisfied with the strings, he lets Dave’s arms drop loosely back to the futon.

Now Dave is glad for the earlier adjustments. As Bro steps back and strips his shirt off, he’s got a perfect view. The desire to say fuck it and just jump him is pounding away in his brain, pushing him just to the brink of moving, giving up.

He can’t. He can’t give up. He’s got to follow through for Bro, so he won’t be mocked later, so he won’t have his own perverted privileges revoked. He’s got a reputation as a willing freakjob sex partner to uphold here.

He stares ahead, empty, and Bro moves out of his line of sight. He pulls the rolling chair out into the open floor, spins it around to face Dave, rummages around the desk again.

Whatever he sets aside, Dave doesn’t see it. He grits his teeth to keep from turning, from making any noise of frustration.

Bro comes close and kisses him again, tips his head slightly to press his mouth to Dave’s neck, calms him down and leaves him poised.

He murmurs things occasionally, comments on how good Dave looks, how good he’s going to feel. He makes Dave feel like squirming but that option is right out.

He lifts Dave too easily, scoops him up bridal style which makes him want to just die, carries him along when he moves to take a seat in the desk chair.

He puts Dave in his lap, lets him slump forward against his chest, repositions his arms so they dangle loosely over his shoulders. His hands roam across Dave’s hips, his sides, over his back and down to his ass, every touch barely there and driving him insane. He gets hard when Bro dips a hand down to stroke his dick, exercises some serious fucking self-control to keep his hips from jerking forward.

He hangs limp as ever, face pressed into his Bro’s shoulder, breathing shallowly. He swallows down the gasp that tries to overpower him when Bro grasps his hips and pulls them forward, flush with his own skin, forcibly grinds Dave against him, down on his clothed erection.

Dave wants to dig his nails in and hump his brother like a dog in heat.

He stifles a groan and lets himself be jostled.

His arms are lifted up again when Bro pulls at his strings, drags him away from his safe, comfortably slack position. He places Dave’s hands against his shoulders, tells him to keep his arms stiff and at his word Dave locks them in place. He holds himself still, so still except for the rise and fall of his chest, stares ahead and sees the way his brother looks at him, like he’s not the only one exercising some self-control here.

When Bro brings a hand back down to his ass, nudges him up slightly and spreads his legs, exposes him completely, Dave rolls with it. Belatedly, he realizes what Bro must have gone into the bathroom for. That’s where he stashes lube and stuff, like a respectable married man storing a bottle of KY in the medicine cabinet between his blood pressure pills and the Mrs.’ exfoliating bath salts.

He thinks there’s no state or country they could move to that would let the two of them get married. Not that he’s looking for that kind of thing anyway, he’s just thinking useless shit but honestly, he should probably just turn his brain off again. Puppets aren’t even supposed to think.

He focuses on nothing in particular, stays put and lets his brother work a slick finger into him, then two, three. He trembles and chokes down a moan as quietly as possible.

Bro presses his fingers just right and watches as Dave shivers, asks him outright if it feels good.

He feeds him the right answer, curls his fingers against Dave’s prostate and hears him gasp out the same “Yes,” he just entered in.

He’s not half bad as a ventriloquist.

He tells Dave to beg, instructs a ‘please’ and hears it repeated back four times over, in time with every concentrated curl of his fingers.

It feels good to speak, even if the words aren’t his own.

Bro reaches up with his free hand and presses at Dave’s cheeks with thumb and forefinger, props his mouth open so he can’t keep from panting aloud.

He pushes gently at the insides of Dave’s elbows, breaks the stiffness, lets him fall forward again and stop his own heavy breathing.

He withdraws his fingers and picks Dave up, just under the arms, feels but doesn’t hear his near-whine of protest as he deposits him back on the futon.

Dave lays there with his limbs bent at odd angles, flushed and hard, tense with how bad he wants to cut this shit out.

He can’t watch as Bro fishes his dick out, rolls a condom on, but he imagines and the thought just feeds his restlessness. He’s actually salivating and he’s so, so done with this puppet thing, was done with it like, ten minutes ago, just wants to move already, but there’s no chance of that as Bro picks him up again and pulls him back into his lap.

He drops Dave’s legs on either side of his own, straddling and slumping against him. He lifts his hips, positions their bodies together so carefully, so exactly, and finally thrusts into him slow, savoring the feel of him, the not-quite-a-noise he makes.

Dave bites his tongue as Bro holds him down by the hips, thrusts up into him steadily, can’t keep his breath from hitching anymore and he almost wishes Bro had gagged him for this. At least that way he’d be quiet the way he’s supposed to, not fucking this up the way he probably is.

He’s trying really fucking hard, leaning motionless against his brother’s body and holding his fingers in a stiff mimicry of something relaxed, uncurled and shaking with the effort of not clinging.

His arms really are going pins and needles now.

Bro holds him just a little too gently, fucks him like it’s all a big tease, not giving enough and soon, before he can stop himself, Dave is whimpering his name into the open air.

He hears it and wants to cringe, keeps still. Bro hears it and stops for a moment, breathes out a sound almost like a laugh. He turns to brush his lips against Dave’s ear, releases the hold on his hips as he says, “Move.”

And Dave moves.

He doesn’t dwell on his screw up (not now, he can’t think at all now,) exalts in the return of freedom. He pulls himself together, pulls his muscles taut, digs his short nails into the skin of his brother’s back and grinds down against him. He works his hips, sharp, frantic, moves to the point of pain as he grips and clings. He breathes out in hot, harsh gasps, bites at his brother’s neck, pressing closer, closer, cursing him for being a pain in the ass, for his weird puppet shit, for not fucking him hard enough dammit and muffles a cry when Bro drops a hand down between them, ending his desperate search for friction and dragging him to climax. He mashes his mouth to Bro’s mid-moan, tastes his tongue as he shudders under him, digs his own nails in a little at Dave’s thigh.

Dave breaks the kiss to breathe and never remembers to start it up again. He sprawls in Bro’s lap, exhausted.

Behind his brother’s back, he lazily works the leather bands off his wrists, drops them on the floor and lets his arms dangle, useless.

He stays still as Bro rearranges them, picks him up and carries him to the futon, flops down on his back with Dave spread over him, a mirror image of their position from Dave’s day earlier in the week. The condom gets tied off and tossed somewhere on the floor, probably to be found by Dave later in a moment of startled and barely contained disgust.

From his place on the couch, Dave nips at Bro’s collar bone like a vindictive pet, tries really hard not to view himself in that light because seriously, that’d be a new low for his subconscious.

It doesn’t help that Bro pets his hair like he thinks he’s fucking cute.

In reality, Bro is just a creepy weirdo. Dave tells him so.

“I know,” he says, proud.

God he’s cool.

He’s going to have to scour the internet just to find something weird enough to compete with this, troll his way around fetish blogs and shameful sex forums. He’s tried in the past but so far nothing has one-upped puppet sex and he feels like a slacker. Bro’s got to be expecting more from him at this point.

He looks up and studies his brother’s expression, trying to divine some secret truth from it, before giving up and just groping around for his shades. He puts them back in place and settles with his chin on Bro’s chest, hot and sticky and thinking too much.

Bro smears the lines on either side of his mouth, already smudged from kissing, with his thumb. He asks if Dave wants to get cleaned up and yeah, that sounds like a pretty good idea.

It’s Friday and they’ve got time.

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End file.
